


Lazy Sunday Afternoon: Greed Kills

by GillO



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse
Genre: Domestic, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Gen, Humour, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-25
Updated: 2010-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillO/pseuds/GillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written at a time when my American friends are worrying about turkey-cooking, for the LJ communities Still Grrr and SB Fag Ends. Buffy is cooking a meal and not in the most placid mood. Only Spike knows how to handle her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Sunday Afternoon: Greed Kills

Buffy was in another of her cooking frenzies. They happened less frequently these days, which was a relief for everyone, but they still happened. No-one talked about them after the event – feelings were too sore – and once she’d started the next one, no-one dared recall the last. It was a great big shared secret, like a common shame, though not.

“Buffy, love, you do not need to make three sides to go with my mug of blood! And Angel is even less interested in solid food. You’re doing enough stuff for the blood-free fraternity anyway – I can always stir a little yam in my blood if I want texture.”

She ignored Spike. He was clearly bonkers again.

“Buffy, this isn’t Thanksgiving or Christmas. Why do we need a turkey?” Xander was happier with pizza, fresh from the box, anyway.

“It isn’t even Hanukkah” added Willow. “Not that I do Jewish food any more.”

Buffy’s friends were clearly conspiring to spoil her day. This was not to be allowed. She turned from them and rummaged in the back of the drawer. Somewhere she knew there was a back-up potato peeler and a crinkle cutter. She checked her list and realised that she had only two hours to get the beef into the second oven.

Tight-lipped, she turned to Spike. “If you can’t do anything but snark, get out of my kitchen. I thought you were going to help?”

One even slightly wobbly lower lip and he was her slave. As always. He sighed and picked up the tiny bag of blood. “Otter in the wild rice it is, Buffy.”

Willow looked at Xander. They needed no telepathic communication to know they shared a point of view and a plan of action. They sidled out of the room.

Next door, in the cosy cottage living-room, Dawn was dusting some ornaments. No, on closer inspection, she was polishing silverware. “I didn’t even know we had this stuff and now I’m polishing it! Buffy thinks I’m a butler. Well, next time she cooks, I’m out of here no buttling for her or anyone else, no sir.” She scowled, but bent diligently over her task. A pissed-off Slayer on a home-making rampage was nobody’s idea of a Sunday morning companion.

Xander looked more closely. There were minuscule spoons and a strange silver ladle with holes pierced in it. For making soup patterns on the cloth and feeding leprechauns? He really did not want to know. He sighed and picked up the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner. He knew his place. Scooby reunions usually went this way these days.

Back in the kitchen, Buffy was worrying about something else. “What do you mean you don’t know how to make Yorkshire puddings? You’re British aren’t you?”

Spike, retreating against the counter, raised a hand defensively. “Pet, when I was young, servants did that sort of thing. Since then – well, the sort of Yorkshire puddings I’ve mostly eaten were overweight girls in unattractive frocks.”

Buffy glared at him. “So not funny, Spike.”

“Truth often isn’t, Buffy. Now, what’s all the panic about? Angel and Giles coming to eat? Angel’s new girl?” He took her in his arms, deftly removing the wooden spoon as he did so.

Buffy was suddenly close to tears. Her annoying vampire had seen the truth again. Her ex-vampire would be there, and Giles, the Englishman of all Englishmen, for what she had recklessly advertised as “a proper Sunday dinner with all the trimmings”. A strange girl – no, werewolf – too. Buffy had a huge bowl of humiliation heaped up for herself, and no way out.

Her stammering attempts to explain all this didn’t go very far. Spike caressed her cheek and thumbed a tear away from it. He followed up with the softest, tenderest of kisses.

“Sweetheart, stop worrying. The vamp who spent a century living on rat won’t be bothered. Your Watcher’s used to packet meals and ready-to-cook. And we can always throw the lass a bone if she’s hungry. You know what they’re here for – a lazy Sunday afternoon, your company, old friends, a rest. Give them a break. Give yourself one too. No need to kill yourself cooking.”

She leant against him, brought to her senses at last. There was enough food already prepared to feed the entire population of this small Cotswold village, three different sorts of blood in the warming oven, champagne on ice. She could stop.

He caressed her hair, kissed it lightly. He didn’t tell her he wanted to scoop her into his arms and carry her off to bed. Even he wasn’t fool enough to spoil the moment that much. But he filed away plans in his head for interesting and exciting – and not exactly culinary - things to do with leftovers, and gently guided her out of the kitchen.


End file.
